Sensation grows Thought, grows Fantasy and Force, and
we have Philosophies, Dynasties, nay Poetries and Religions!

"Young Diogenes, or rather young Gneschen, for by such diminutive
had they in their fondness named him, travelled forward to those high
consummations, by quick yet easy stages. The Futterals, to avoid vain
talk, and moreover keep the roll of gold Friedrichs safe, gave out that
he was a grandnephew; the orphan of some sister's daughter, suddenly
deceased, in Andreas's distant Prussian birthland; of whom, as of
her indigent sorrowing widower, little enough was known at Entepfuhl.
Heedless of all which, the Nursling took to his spoon-meat, and throve.
I have heard him noted as a still infant, that kept his mind much to
himself; above all, that seldom or never cried. He already felt
that time was precious; that he had other work cut out for him than
whimpering."

Such, after utmost painful search and collation among these
miscellaneous Paper-masses, is all the notice we can gather of Herr
Teufelsdrockh's genealogy. More imperfect, more enigmatic it can seem
to few readers than to us. The Professor, in whom truly we more and more
discern a certain satirical turn, and deep under-currents of roguish
whim, for the present stands pledged in honor, so we will not doubt him:
but seems it not conceivable that, by the "good Gretchen Futteral,"
or some other perhaps interested party, he has himself been deceived?
Should these sheets, translated or not, ever reach the Entepfuhl
Circulating Library, some cultivated native of that district might feel
called to afford explanation. Nay, since Books, like invisible scouts,
permeate the whole habitable globe, and Timbuctoo itself is not safe
from British Literature, may not some Copy find out even the mysterious
basket-bearing Stranger, who in a state of extreme senility perhaps
still exists; and gently force even him to disclose himself; to claim
openly a son, in whom any father may feel pride?

CHAPTER II. IDYLLIC.

"HAPPY season of Childhood!" exclaims Teufelsdrockh: "Kind Nature, that
art to all a bountiful mother; that visitest the poor man's hut with
auroral radiance; and for thy Nursling hast provided a soft swathing
of Love and infinite Hope, wherein he waxes and slumbers, danced round
(_umgaukelt_) by sweetest Dreams! If the paternal Cottage still shuts us
in, its roof still screens us; with a Father we have as yet a prophet,
priest and king, and an Obedien